


Waiting

by rosesnake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hiatus, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:44:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesnake/pseuds/rosesnake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They do not speak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song 'With these hands' from the musical Civil War

They do not speak. There is not a word spoken as Lestrade enters his flat late that night to find Sherlock there, sitting quietly on the couch. Waiting. 

The room is dark. The only illumination coming from the all night shop a few houses down and the street lamps shining throught the curtains. It's enough to recognise him tough. Not that Lestrade needs any light for that. Not even after two years.

They look at each other in silence, letting the minutes slowly drift by, each noting the changes on the other's face, the new lines, the new shadows. Sherlock stands up slowly, crossing the room to stand in front of Lestrade in a few unhurried steps. Lestrade doesn't move, simply waits. He has become quite good at that in the last months.

They are so close by now that they are breathing the same air, still looking at each other as their heart beat the passing seconds. Sherlock raises his hand slowly, holding it palm up toward Lestrade, fingers slightly spread as he waits. His face is calm, impassible. He looks like he has all the time in the world. 

Lestrade knows he will be gone again come morning.

His own hand reaches out slowly as if in a dream, his fingers interlacing with Sherlock's as he presses their palms together. They look at each other, breathing, their hearts beating slow and steady into their joined hands. And Sherlock smiles. It's slow and soft, just a gentle curve of his lips, but his whole body seems to relax with it as his eyes turn tender and incredibly warm.

In the next heartbeat Lestrade's lips are fussed to his, his free hand lost in his hair as he draws him nearer, breathing him in deeply like a drowing man coming up for air. 

They stumble to the bedroom, hands and mouths mapping the contours of familiar faces and bodies, relearning paths they has so few chances to explore before they were torn apart. There are a few new scars on Sherlock's body, rough and sensitive under Lestrade tongue and lips, a few more ghosts in his eyes Lestrade's caresses can't fully make disappear ... But he is alive. Alive and whole. And there. 

Right now it's all that matter. 

Later, as they simply lay in each other arms, revealing in the closeness, Sherlock fingers slowly trace every detail of Lestrade's face as if to commit them to memory. They kiss and touch. They look and smile. They don't speak.

In the morning when Lestrade wakes, Sherlock is gone. There is no trace of him anywhere, no note or any indication of when he will be back.

Lestrade showers, dresses and closes the door behind him as he leaves for work. Life goes on.

He waits.


End file.
